


Blood Bound

by TheNightIsDarkAndFilledWithTerrors (TheFeistyRogue)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, Blood Magic, Dark Harry, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Magic, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Het and Slash, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rituals, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFeistyRogue/pseuds/TheNightIsDarkAndFilledWithTerrors
Summary: Hermione decides to take her life into her own hands. Binding Draco Malfoy to her will is just the first step in a convoluted plan that will eventually deliver her the Wizarding World on a platter."I go to classes like the goody-two-shoes that I am, do my homework, and spend the rest of my time researching forbidden magics. Never again will I face down a basilisk with nothing but a mirror. Never again will a man like Lucius Malfoy control my life. After your sickening display with Buckbeak and his upcoming execution, I decided that now was as good a time as any to put my plan into action.”





	1. Chapter One — Draco

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't tell from the various warnings and tags that this is going to be a Dark!Hermione fic, then this is the warning for you.
> 
> There will be manipulation, slavery, rape, murder, child abuse, underage non-consensual sex between two students, and torture in this story. This fic features a very dark Hermione and an increasingly dark Golden Trio. Canon diverges mid-third year.
> 
> I've written 2/3 chapters and I don't know if I'll continue with this. It depends on the feedback that I get. I just felt there was a void in the Dramione fics on AO3. I wanted a fic in which Hermione dominates Draco and takes on the wizarding world. I couldn't find one, so I decided to write it.

Draco woke with a splitting headache and a terrible sense of foreboding. Coarse bindings dug into the skin around his wrists and ankles, painfully tight. He was lying on his side with his arms tied behind him. Forcing open his eyes gave him a blurry impression of a small, dark room. He shivered, the cool stones paving the floor rough against his bare skin; he was only wearing the pyjama bottoms he’d gone to bed in. He hunched his shoulders in an attempt to shield himself, immediately regretting the movement when it pulled at the rope, straining his arms. 

Someone had kidnapped Draco straight out of the Slytherin dorms. Was he even still in Hogwarts? He took a breath to brace against the pain and wrestled with his binds, testing their strength. There was no give in them. His wrists and shoulders ached from the exertion. He bit his lip and tried to imagine what his father would do were he in Draco’s position. Unfortunately, Draco couldn’t even imagine his father being kidnapped from his bed and relocated to a prison cell. He whimpered, wondering what anyone could want with him.

“Good. You’re awake. Don’t bother trying to escape: I soaked the rope in Loose-Me-Not Potion.”

Draco froze. He recognised that voice, he was sure of it.

“Evening, Malfoy. _Lumos.”_ The room brightened and Draco winced, blinking away the spots of light. He looked up at the figure towering over him and gazed into the cruel brown eyes of Hermione Granger.

“You,” he stuttered. How in Merlin’s name had Granger managed this?

“Me.” Granger smiled. He’d never seen her smile like that before, not even when she’d won house points or achieved a spell before everyone else in the class. 

Granger waved her wand in a circular motion and mounted torches burst into flame on each of the four walls of his prison, built from the same grey stone as the floor. She flicked her wrist in a silent _Nox_ to extinguish the Wand-Lighting Charm. Her shadow flickered in the firelight, forming monstrous, flickering shapes.

“When my father hears about this…” Draco growled. He clenched his fists in the hope that it would stop his body from shaking. Granger was fine, dressed as she was in layers of robes, but it was cold in this cell of hers and he was wearing very little. 

A peal of laughter echoed around the room. 

“Your father?” Granger snorted. “As if I’ll allow you to tell your father about this. No, I rather think not. Now, do be quiet, Malfoy. I’ll monologue once the ritual’s over.”

Draco swallowed, not liking the sound of that very much. The only way he could think to silence him would be murder. No amount of blackmail was going to keep Draco silent when she released him. Once he got out of here, he’d get her expelled, then tell his father to kill her and make her death look like an accident. 

A painful one.

“Rituals are Dark Arts, you filthy Mudblood. I don’t know what you’re attempting, but you’re more likely to kill yourself than work any real magic. Let me go and I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

Draco gasped as he was slapped across the face, Granger kneeling on his chest. His tied hands were trapped beneath him and it hurt more than he’d imagined it possibly could.

Her eyes gleamed as she leaned over him.

“That was for calling me filthy.” She slapped him again, his entire face stinging, jaw throbbing, pride bruised. “That was for calling me a Mudblood.”

Tears threatened and Draco swallowed, sniffing to hold them back. He wasn’t expecting the third slap and it hurt more than the first two combined. He moaned with pain and embarrassment, curling away from her.

“That? Well, that was because I felt like it.”

A rag was stuffed into his mouth and Draco closed his eyes, hoping this was all some sort of awful dream. The gag tasted foul, like old socks, and he spluttered around it.

“Ashwinder eggs, powdered moonstone, rose thorns…” A cool liquid was dripped onto his bare chest. Draco tensed. “Don’t try to fight me now, Malfoy.”

Granger began to rub the liquid into his skin, coating his chest, his arms, his neck, his face. He hissed and tried to squirm away, but bound as he was he couldn’t escape. She even coated his eyelids, his ears, and the tips of his fingers. He cried out through the gag, hoping someone would hear him and save him from her crazy actions, but no one came. Instead, Granger began to chant.

_“Antiquis magicae superbiae, gulae et luxuriae malus ingluvie indignationem et ignavia Adiuro me huic linguae oculis sanus tangere mente. Fero sanguine.”_

Latin had never been Draco’s forte, so he had no idea what she was saying. Above him, a shining silver dagger caught his attention. He tried to wriggle away, begging her to stop. She did not. He truly began to cry when Granger carved a cross over his heart. He had never been in such agony. She spoke again, smiling down at him and cutting her own wrist, dripping her blood into his wound.

_“Adiuro eum meum.”_

Draco screamed as flames seemed to rush through his veins, searing his skin, sealing him as Granger’s slave. The cross over his heart throbbed before healing, but he could feel her brand in his soul. Instinctively, he knew he had to obey her every wish.

Granger’s wound had not healed so cleanly, a pale scar on the inside of her wrist. Despite that, she seemed to be glowing from within, her skin shining golden. She did not seem to care for either the wound or the glow. Instead, she stood over him, smiling: victorious. 

“I suppose you’ve got questions? I can afford to monologue, now. You see, Malfoy—or perhaps I should call you Draco, as you are mine. You see, Draco… I spent months last year Petrified because your father tricked Ginny Weasley into unleashing a basilisk on this school. I was terrified and furious. I swore I would never allow myself to become so helpless again. This year I applied to take all electives available. I’ve had a little assistance in attending them, but it has simply allowed me to study twice as hard. I go to classes like the goody-two-shoes that I am, do my homework, and spend the rest of my time researching forbidden magics. Never again will I face down a basilisk with nothing but a mirror. Never again will a man like Lucius Malfoy control my life. After your sickening display with Buckbeak and his upcoming execution, I decided that now was as good a time as any to put my plan into action.”

Granger knelt by Draco’s side as he struggled to understand everything she’d said. He hadn’t realised that his father had actually been responsible for opening the Chamber. And now she wanted revenge for the damn hippogriff? It baffled him. He groaned as she touched his face, smoothing back his hair. Gently, curiously so, she withdrew the gag from his mouth. 

“What have you done to me?” he rasped. He felt as if someone had taken all of his insides and scooped them out, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.

“Can’t you feel it?” Granger placed a hand on his chest. Her warm skin felt like a brand. “I can. I’ve enslaved you, Draco, far better than Lord Voldemort has ever attempted to enslave his followers. I suppose that mark of his allows him to pretend that the Death Eaters have a modicum of autonomy. You don’t.”

Draco began to sob, curling onto his side and away from Granger as much as was possible.

“I didn’t realise how good it would feel,” Granger mused. “I knew that I had to do it; what other way could we ensure that Buckbeak would fly free? But I didn’t realise I’d enjoy having you at my mercy. I quite like it when you cry. After all the mean things you’ve said to me, all the curses, the slurs, the mocking laughter… I feel as if you deserve it. You probably don’t. I’m not sure anyone does. But whether you do or don’t is irrelevant, in the end. You’re mine, now, Draco. This mind, these hands, this heart, those tears… they’re all mine.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder and Draco flinched at her touch. His father would be mortified to see him now.

“Turn back and look at me, Draco.”

Try as he might, Draco couldn't defy her. He stared up at her, helpless, shaking with fear.

“It won’t be that bad,” Granger reassured him. “As mistresses go, I think you’ll find me to be quite generous. Now, listen closely.”

Draco had no choice but to listen as she outlined several rules for him to follow. He wasn’t to attempt to circumvent any of her rules. He wasn’t to communicate to anyone about what had happened. He was to act as normally as possible, but he wasn’t allowed to verbally, physically, or magically attack someone else unless he was in a Hogwarts lesson, or if they had attacked him first and he chose to retaliate in less than a minute. He was not to find a way to attack or retaliate upon her or any of her friends. He was to report to her if he thought that anyone was getting suspicious of how he was behaving.

“If you need something from me or if two orders conflict, you may seek me out and call me a ‘know-it-all swot’. I will ensure that we find a way of speaking privately after you do that as soon as possible.”

Granger patted his cheek and grimaced at the touch. His tears had dried, leaving sticky, salty streaks on his skin. He likely looked an awful state.

“Can you find any flaws in the rules I’ve given you?”

Draco stared up at her, sickened that he was to be complicit in his own enslavement, even as he opened his mouth.

“Professor Snape is a Legilimens. He might be able to skim my thoughts and discover what you’ve done.”

“A Legilimens is a mind reader?”

“In essence, yes.”

Granger tapped her wand on her bottom lip, appearing pensive.

Draco struggled to contain his urge to speak before blurting out, “If I don’t look him in the eye, he can’t access my mind.”

“Excellent.” Granger’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “What other defences are there against a Legilimens?”

“The Art of Occlumency. An accomplished Occlumens can divert any Legilimency attacks while making seem as if they’d not even noticed the attack at all.”

“Thank you for telling me this, Draco.” With a flick of Granger’s wand, the ropes binding Draco fell away. “As it so happens, I’m aware of the Mind Arts. You passed my test with flying colours. The ritual I used shields both of our minds from passive Legilimency. An attacker would have to be looking for proof that I’d performed this ritual on you to find it. If they were, then both you and I would have bigger problems to worry about.”

Draco rotated his wrists and shoulders, crawling to his hands and knees, taking a shuddering breath as he listened to Granger speak. She sounded psychotic—brilliant, but insane. It reminded him a little of what his mother had told him of Aunt Bella. She’d fallen so deep into the Dark Arts that she’d never managed to climb back out.

Now, if Granger fell, she’d take him down with her. He touched a tentative hand to his chest. It was sticky with dried blood, but the wound was completely healed. He then prodded gently at his cheek where she’d struck him. The skin was swollen and sore and probably flushed red.

“ _Tergo_.” The tears, blood, and snot were cleaned from his body with a whisper of a spell. He looked up at Granger, still wearing her school uniform, wand in hand, bushy hair wild as it framed her face. For a moment, he was almost content at her feet. He couldn’t help it; the ritual she’d performed was insidiously working its way through his veins and ensnaring his magic. One day, he wouldn’t want to do anything but sit at her feet and do as she pleased. The burning, pulsing hatred he felt for her was already beginning to become smothered by his desire to fulfil her wishes.

Granger captured his chin with her spare hand. He was torn between the need to lean into her touch and the impulse to wrench himself away from her filthy skin. He controlled himself and did neither.

“I can be kind or I can be cruel,” she warned him. “The less you fight me, the kinder I am.” She traced his stinging cheekbone with her wand and the pain was soothed. 

“Thank you,” Draco ground out. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at her for a second longer. 

“Now, one last thing before I let you go. I want you to contact your father and do everything in your power to ensure that Buckbeak the hippogriff is not executed for attacking you. I don’t care what you tell him, as long as it’s not the truth. And if you fail... Look at me, Draco.”

Draco opened his eyes. He was shaking now, worse than ever, the cold, the shock, the horror making him tremble to his bones. Granger gazed down at him with cold eyes.

“If you fail, you won’t like the consequences. Not one bit. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Draco said. He wanted nothing more than to leave this room and hide in his bed, close his eyes, and shut out the world. He had underestimated Granger once before; he wouldn’t do it again.

“See you soon, Draco,” Granger promised, standing aside. Behind her materialised a door. She handed him his wand. He looked down at it, looked up at her. Cursing her was so far from an option it was painful to even contemplate. She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

“Thank you,” Draco said and scurried out the door.

He found himself on the seventh floor, not far from where the Gryffindor common room was supposed to be. It was the dead of night, so late even the professors would be asleep. Obviously, for Granger was no fool. 

Draco silenced his feet and jogged along the hallway. He had to scramble down several sets of sluggish staircases and creep past snoring portraits, but easily found his way back to the Slytherin dungeon. He crawled into his bed, both grateful and angry that none of his roommates had woken during the time that he’d been gone. On one hand, now he didn’t have to lie to them about where he’d been, but on the other, perhaps if they’d noticed Granger might have been caught before she’d bound him. 

There was a crinkle of parchment as Draco lay his head on his pillow. He closed his eyes and bit back another sob. He’d cried so much this night, he wasn’t sure he had any tears left in him. He just wanted to close his eyes and welcome the oblivion of sleep. Instead, he sat up, drawing the drapes around his bed closed, and cast a Candle Charm. The tip of his wand glowed a soft, reassuring gold, the colour of his nightlights back at the Manor before he’d outgrown them. He fished under his pillow and found a folded piece of parchment with his name on it written in a neat, feminine hand.

_Draco, don’t blame your roommates. I slipped a Sleeping Draught into all of your drinks this evening; only you received the antidote while you were with me. They’ll wake as usual in the morning, perhaps a little sleepier, but unaware of our nighttime adventure._

_Sweet dreams. Be good for me, Draco. Remember, I can find you anywhere, anytime._

_Your mistress,_

_Hermione_

The moment he read the final line, the paper curled in upon itself and burst into cool, blue flames. Draco stared at the mess of ashes in his hands.

“ _Scourgify_ ,” he said, numb. He collapsed face first into his pillow and wrapped his arms around it. Despite his earlier resolution that he was done crying, it appeared that he was not. He sobbed into his pillow, regretting everything that had lead to this point: all the hatred he bore Granger and her filthy blood, stupid Potter and his stupider friend Weasley, the injustice of his life. It wasn’t fair that she had bound him so completely. He didn’t know what he’d ever done to deserve it.


	2. Chapter Two — Hermione

Hermione collected the elements she’d used in her ritual, storing them in the leather satchel she’d upgraded with an Undetectable Extension Charm. The Room of Requirement had been her greatest find this year and it wasn’t one she was quite ready to share with Harry or Ron, not yet. They hadn’t even figured out that she was attending several classes simultaneously; they didn’t deserve to hear about what she’d found in her extra time.

On a chain around her neck that Hermione never took off unless to shower or sleep was strung the golden casing of a Time-Turner. When Professor McGonagall had offered its use at the start of the year, Hermione hadn’t been able to believe her luck. Imagine granting a student the ability to manipulate the time-space continuum in order to attend an extra class or two. The idea was quite ludicrous, but she certainly didn’t object. She’d often thought that instead of common sense, witches and wizards had been gifted with magic. She wasn’t certain that they were always better off for it, not that Hermione would give up her gift for anything. 

Checking her watch, Hermione noted that it was three minutes after four. She’d given Draco fifteen minutes to return to his common room before she ventured out. If he got caught, she certainly didn’t want to be seen as complicit in his nighttime wanderings. The rumours would be disastrous enough without the points lost and the detentions earned. 

Tapping herself on the head with her wand, Hermione cast a Disillusionment Charm. Careful and deliberate use of the Time-Turner had allowed her to live each day of her life twice. She was ageing twice as fast, sleeping twice as much, and learning twice as quickly. Through independent study, she’d stormed her way through a lot of the wandwork covered by the Hogwarts curriculum. She hadn’t realised how much classes with her year group had been holding her back.

So far, she’d found herself immersed in the advanced theory of Transfiguration, Charms, Ancient Runes, and Potions. Arithmancy and Astrology, while interesting, weren’t as useful, so she didn’t study ahead. Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology had little use other than as a base for Potions. Defence Against the Dark Arts combined disciplines from most of their subjects, so she was progressing on that front by proxy. Muggle Studies was a waste of time and Divination was a joke, but it was worth attending those classes in order to keep the Time-Turner, so Hermione didn’t complain. 

Sadly, History of Magic was the let down it had always been. For a subject that had a wealth of potential, Binns managed to make it the dullest class she’d ever attended. 

Hermione was working on something to combat that. An exorcism would be a wonderful prank to suggest in eavesdropping distance of the Weasley twins. She just had to find a method that didn’t require the sacrifice of human bones or unicorn blood. Those were a last resort.

Stepping out of the Room of Requirement, Hermione found herself in a quiet, dimly lit corridor. The moon was waning, but still bright, and she needed nothing but moonlight to make her way back to the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady was snoring in her portrait, but Hermione had left it propped open with a book. Dangerous, perhaps, if Sirius Black was roaming the castle, but he’d already proven that he could make his way past the portraits with little trouble. Hermione slipped into the common room, shutting the entrance behind her. She walked on silent feet into the girls’ dormitory and entered the bathroom she shared with Lavender, Parvati, Fay, and Sophie. She didn’t look at her bed—in theory, she should be in it. Instead, she turned the Time-Turner three times, taking her back to one in the morning. After a few minutes’ wait, she heard the quiet whisper of “I’m leaving,” and knew her counterpart was gone. 

Hermione slipped into her still warm bed, placing the Time-Turner into the bedside table drawer. It was protected with a basic ward that would alert her if someone was tampering with it. Setting an alarm for seven, Hermione closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The next morning, Hermione nodded along with Ron and Harry’s Quidditch talk and watched the professors out of the corner of her eye. If she was going to be caught out, if Draco had found a way around her ritual, it was going to be today. 

“Hey, Hermione, are you listening?”

She blinked, drawing her attention back to her two boys. Immature and foolish they could be, they were still her best friends. Ron had paused with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, eyeing her with concern, while Harry had nudged her and was smiling with amusement.

“Thinking about a book,” she lied. “Sorry. Did you know that although there are five exemptions to Gamp’s Law, there are actually several sub-exemptions…” 

She trailed off as Ron and Harry groaned.

“Too early, Hermione!” Ron complained and they resumed their conversation about Quidditch. It was a conversation they rehashed every morning: who was going to win the Quidditch Cup? Pleased that she’d put them off the scent, Hermione withdrew the book she had actually been perusing the day before from her bag and opened it to the appropriate page. She pretended to read, but was instead watching as Draco entered the Great Hall. She could feel his essence now that he was closer and the newly formed scar on her wrist tingled. It was almost as if, even at this distance, she could reach inside him and rearrange him into her perfect little pet. Perhaps, one day, she would.

As Draco entered, his shoulders were set, his head tilted high. Pansy Parkinson was clutching at his arm, saying something shrill that Hermione couldn’t decipher from across the room. He looked bored with her presence, a prince among his court. On his other side strode Theo Nott, a tall blonde who often challenged her for top marks in her Arithmancy classes. Draco took a seat at the Slytherin table then indicated that his friends ought to take a seat too: imperious and arrogant. He had impressive acting skills; Hermione was satisfied. She would have been disappointed to see him cowed, despite how much she’d liked him crying at her feet the night before.

As if sensing her scrutiny, Draco looked over. She met his gaze and narrowed her eyes, focusing on their bond. He immediately ducked his head, saying something in Parkinson’s ear. He appeared unbothered by the sight of her, if not for the fist that was clenched tightly around the knife in his hand. Hermione snorted and returned to her breakfast, pleased.

Classes dragged in the following weeks, for Hermione was more than prepared for them. Professor McGonagall began giving her strange looks when Hermione mastered complicated material even quicker than usual. Professor Flitwick was simply delighted with her advancement and none of the other Professors noticed. 

Hermione was a little appalled that this was what the allegedly best school of magic in the world could offer. At least in primary school, the teachers had pushed her and allowed her to work ahead. She supposed that the offer of the Time-Turner was Professor McGonagall’s equivalent of doing so. Still, as dull as her classes were during the day, it only drove Hermione deeper into the restricted section of the library. Professor Binns had signed a permission slip for unlimited access and Hermione was in often enough that Madam Pince didn’t give her a second glance.

At the end of one Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall finished her explanation of animate to animate and fixed her stern gaze upon Hermione.

“Miss Granger, if you could stay a moment after class. The rest of you are dismissed.”

“Ooh, harsh luck,” Ron said, ambling over. He’d probably not even unpacked his book. “Want us to wait?” Harry was lingering by his side, fiddling with his glasses.

Hermione smiled at her boys and waved them off as she packed her bag. 

“No, you’ll be late for Potions and Professor Snape will take points. Go on, I’ll catch you up.”

Harry grimaced while Ron groaned. Hermione suspected that they’d been looking for an excuse to be late. Too bad for them.

“Make sure that you take notes for me,” she called as they left, scared off by Professor McGonagall’s pointed gaze.

“I shall write you a note that you may give to Professor Snape, if you need one,” Professor McGonagall said. “Now, Miss Granger, I can’t help but notice you seem to be excelling above and beyond your peers when it comes to your school work, especially in Transfiguration. You were gifted with that Time-Turner so that you may catch up with your electives, not work yourself to death.”

Hermione forced herself to blush, cursing how obvious she’d been. 

“I mostly am!” she protested. “I use it to make sure that I get to classes on time and attend those that clash. It’s just… Transfiguration is my favourite subject. I’ll admit that I’ve used it once or twice to learn a little more, but I don’t do it often! And I won’t do it again!”

Professor McGonagall peered at Hermione over the silver rim of her glasses. The corner of her mouth twitched as if she were trying not to smile. If only she knew what Hermione was truly using the Time-Turner for.

“Very well, Miss Granger, I shall trust your judgement. You do not seem to be exhausting yourself, so I will allow the occasional use of it to further your studies. If, however, at any point I deem it to be too much for you, I shall have to confiscate it and you will have to reduce your electives to three.”

“Oh, thank you, Professor,” Hermione gushed. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I am sure that you will not. Off you go to Professor Snape’s class, now, and here’s your note. If you’re quick, you may not even need it.”

Hermione beamed at Professor McGonagall, taking the note with thanks. It did not escape her notice that Professor McGonagall had given her implicit permission to use the Time-Turner as she saw fit. How anyone could become exhausted through overusing a Time-Turner, Hermione didn’t know. She’d simply adjusted her sleep schedule to account for the extra hours awake: not exactly difficult. 

She took her time walking to Potions and disappeared into an empty classroom next door. She turned back an hour and spent the hour completing her Transfiguration and Charms homework. It was easy to tell when Harry and Ron rushed past the door to get to Potions on time. She checked her watch; she had two minutes. She waited for a minute and a half, then followed them into the Potions classroom. It was as dreary as usual, with peculiar ingredients lining the shelves and a constant smell of ammonia in the air.

“What did she want?” Harry whispered. He dumped his cauldron onto his desk, drawing the attention of everyone in the class. Hermione withheld from rolling her eyes.

“Just following up on an essay I wrote,” Hermione answered, setting out her supplies neatly. 

“Ah, yes, the know-it-all swot—are you writing essays for extra credit now, Granger? Struggling to keep up with the rest of us?”

“Quite the contrary, Malfoy. I believe it was me, after all, that achieved the highest mark on our Transfiguration exam last year.” She inclined her head, indicated that she understood Draco’s message. 

Of course, Ron, sweet, silly Ron, had to enter the fray, wand in hand.

“Yeah, Malfoy, you pointy git. You’re not even half the student Hermione is.”

“I wouldn’t want to be,” Draco drawled. He appeared perfectly calm, however his gaze was flicking anxiously between Hermione, Ron, and Harry, and his hand was tucked into his robe, likely resting on his wand. Hermione smiled. Her binding had him on a short leash. She could feel his nerves like a pulse on her wrist.

“Wands away,” Hermione murmured, certain that Professor Snape was likely only seconds from making a dramatic entrance. Luckily, the boys obeyed, and by the time Snape had entered the classroom, all her fellow students were focused on their work stations.

“Today we are working on Cough-Begone,” Snape drawled. “Some of you may be aware that this is the basic derivative from which Pepper-Up is created. Some of you… may not.” He fixed his glare upon Harry. 

His little vendetta was pathetic. Whatever his problem with Harry, Snape was a grown man. He ought to have long been rid of it. 

Admittedly, it was very likely that Harry had not read ahead and therefore was not aware of the connection between Cough-Begone and Pepper-Up. However, Hermione strongly believed that a positive working environment created a positive work ethos and Snape encouraged neither of those.

Instead of listening to Snape’s taunts, Hermione poked Harry’s side. He flinched but didn’t turn toward her. Every time Snape made a pointed comment, Hermione poked him. By the time Snape had revealed the instructions for how to brew Cough-Begone, he was far more relaxed than he’d been before the lesson started. 

“Mean,” he whispered to her with a grin. Hermione simply shrugged and turned her mind to the potion.

In spite of Harry’s general incompetence when it came to Potions, they managed to turn in a perfectly acceptable Cough-Begone. Not even Neville and Ron had ruined theirs, although it was the consistency of sludge and the colour of moss instead of grass. Perhaps not medical grade, but at least they’d managed to follow the instructions.

Meanwhile, Hermione had also been contemplating how to get Malfoy alone. She decided to go to lunch and turn back time by two hours so that she had an hour to plot. Lunch passed quickly and soon enough, Hermione found herself back in the past, watching a pack of Slytherins make their way to the Great Hall. She cast a quick  _ Accio  _ at Draco’s bag. He jolted, looking around for the culprit. When he caught her gaze, he nodded and excused himself from his friends. Hermione beckoned him into an empty room and locked the door behind them.

“So, you’ve got news for me, then?”

“Of course I do, Granger. I wouldn’t have called you so if not,” he spat.

Hermione took a step back, raising her eyebrows. She’d specifically forbidden him from verbally attacking her, but perhaps to him this sort of aggression didn’t count. He had obviously had time to regain his compose since she’d last had him sobbing before her on the floor.

“I think you should get on your knees,” she said, putting pressure on their bond. Draco paled in a manner that was delightful.

“Sorry,” he stuttered, as if only just realising how rude he’d been.

“Now.”

Draco fell to his knees with a thud. Hermione took a breath and bit her lip to hold back her smile. She knew, logically, that according to Western societal values what she was doing morally wrong.

She didn’t care.

“In public, in order to keep up appearances, you may speak to me like that. But in private, I own you. You are, to put it crudely, my bitch. Don’t ever snap at me like that again.”

Hermione stepped forward, catching Draco’s chin in her grasp. He looked miserable. Well, good. 

“I told you before: I can be kind or I can be cruel. Now, repeat after me: I am a worm.”

“I am a worm,” Draco echoed dully.

“Again.”

“I am a worm.”

“What are you?”

“A worm.”

“Prove it to me. Get on your belly and beg me for forgiveness.”

Hermione watched with satisfaction as Draco dirtied his robes on the classroom floor, prostrating himself at her feet. So close, she could feel his emotions in their bond: he was frightened, angry, awed, and regretful. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m a worm.” He sniffled before wiping away a tear. “I’m a worm.”

“Stop. Get up. You’re forgiven.” Hermione watched Draco drag himself to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair wild. “Use a spell to make yourself look respectable.”

“Thank you,” he said, He closed his eyes as if in concentration, then cast a silent spell. The dirt disappeared from his robes, his hair became perfectly coiffed, and his eyes shone brighter when he opened them again. It made him look handsome. Hermione couldn’t decide if she preferred to see him put together or dishevelled. After all, she did so enjoy him grovelling at her feet.

“Now, tell me your news.”

“The hippogriff’s been sent to a nature reserve in North America, where it will live a full and happy life. Also, Blaise has noticed that something’s changed about me, but he hasn’t said anything and I’m not sure that he will.”

“That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it,” Hermione murmured. “Well done with Buckbeak. I’m proud of you.” It was amusing to watch Draco shiver in response to her words; she could feel the bond rewarding him with a rush of euphoria. “So, Blaise Zabini has been the first to notice. Tell me a little more about him.”

Hermione leaned back against the stone wall of the classroom. She’d never even spoken to Zabini, only knew him as a quiet, rule-abiding Slytherin.

“He’s a loner in the house, seems to be amused by our antics. He’s untouchable, a little like I am; no one dares to threaten us. His mother’s known as the Black Widow because she’s married seven men who have all died and left her their fortunes.”

“You  _ were  _ untouchable,” Hermione interrupted. She drew the pads of her fingers across Draco’s cheek. “Until you had your little fall from grace.”

Draco’s bottom lip quivered before he nodded his head and averted his eyes. 

“Yes. You’re right.”

“Will he be a good asset to me if I’m trying to revolutionise the wizarding world?”

She’d not even realised what she’d wanted until she voiced the words. A revolution: it sounded exciting. Something that would thrill and inspire the masses. She wanted it so badly she could almost taste it. And Draco was her foot in the door.

“If he wants to be. He understands our politics and how to play our games—he just chooses not to.” 

Hermione tilted her head to one side, considering what she knew of Zabini. Combined with what Draco said, it seemed that he likely wasn’t a threat and was ambivalent enough to either of them to be curious, rather than horrified, by Draco’s enslavement.

“Tell me if he goes digging for more. If not, leave him to me.”

With that, Hermione dismissed Draco, instead choosing to remain in the empty classroom to think about what she’d said. When she’d first planned to bind Draco to her, she’d done it out of necessity as it was the only way she could think of saving Buckbeak. But now she had him, she craved more. She wanted people to follow her, to worship her. She wanted that, not just because she bound them to her with blood, but because they’d chosen to become bound.

Voldemort had better watch out. Dark Lady Granger sounded more appealing than Hermione every single day.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm off to hell... anyone joining me?


End file.
